Archangel's Shadows (Guild Hunter series Book 7)

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Watching Ash walk away into the falling veil of snow, long and lithe and alone, Janvier fought the urge to haul her back, demand her trust. That would get him nothing. She was wounded deep inside and, like any wounded creature, would strike out in an effort to protect herself. Not only that, in attempting to force her, he’d lose the faith she already had in him.

And his Ashblade offered that faith with the wariness of one who’d once had the gift of it betrayed.

Revving the engine, he made himself leave. He might have been born in a time when a man protected his woman from the world, but he’d come of age in a changing world, and, unlike some vampires of his generation, he didn’t cling to the nostalgia of what once was, choosing instead to embrace the new world while never forgetting his past.

Ash would die if caged.

Even were the cage built with love and a devoted need to protect her from harm.

The image an ugly one, he rode through the streets with pitiless focus, taking the bike directly into the Tower’s underground garage. He knew he’d passed at least five levels of security by the time he brought it to a halt—security most people never glimpsed. Striding to the elevator afterward, he didn’t jerk in surprise when Naasir dropped from the ceiling to stand beside him, having had his senses open for the vampire.

Feet bare under his jeans and the incongruously soft-looking black V-necked sweater he wore over a pale blue shirt with the ends hanging out, he said, “You didn’t bring our hunter?”

Naasir had a feral charm that drew women to him—be they mortal, vampire, or angel. Janvier had seen more than one experienced immortal make a fool of herself over him. But despite the way the vampire liked to needle Janvier every so often, his interest in Ash wasn’t romantic or sexual, the possessiveness he displayed more comparable to that he exhibited with Raphael and the Seven.

“She’s at Guild Academy.” Attempting to get his mind off the old pain he’d glimpsed in Ash’s eyes before she walked away, he tested the texture of Naasir’s sweater. “Is this cashmere?”

“So?” A growl. “It’s cold here. I don’t like the cold, and the shop lady said this would keep me warm.”

Janvier was momentarily diverted from his thoughts by the idea of Naasir shopping in one of the exclusive department stores that sold this type of clothing; the stores were open all hours to cater to an immortal clientele. He had a hunch the vampire had walked into the first clothes shop he’d seen when the cold began to pinch. “Did the woman in the shop also tell you shoes might help?”

“I’ll wear them when I go outside.” Naasir raised his arm to rub the sleeve against the side of his face, his pleasure in the texture open. “Why is Ash at the Academy? She should be here. She’s one of us.”

“She disagrees.” Immortality didn’t hold the lure for her that it did for so many, and Janvier couldn’t blame her. “You know what she can do—imagine her living in the world of immortals.”

Naasir took time to think over his words. “I don’t know how to fix that,” he said at last, his silver eyes on Janvier. “This is bad, Cajun. I don’t want to watch Ash die.”

Wrenching pain in his gut at the idea of it. “I don’t have an answer, either.” The very things that made Ash who she was were also the same things that made immortality a bad choice for her. Janvier knew in his bones that she had the strength to handle the challenges, but he wasn’t sure how to convince her of that.

Naasir narrowed his eyes as the elevator doors opened, and took off toward the stairs. When Janvier stepped out on the floor of the Tower that held Dmitri’s office, high, high above the city, it was to see Naasir coming through the door on the other side. The vampire’s face was pumped with energy, his hair falling around his face, but he wasn’t even out of breath.

“Stupid race,” the other man growled. “You didn’t run.”

“Yeah, I should have.” He had too much energy inside his skin, too much pent-up want. “I’ll race you down later.”

They walked together to Dmitri’s office. Raphael’s second and the leader of the Seven was standing by the large wall of glass behind his desk that looked out over Manhattan, his hand cupping his wife’s cheek. Dressed in black jeans paired with a fitted black jacket over a top the color of fresh raspberries, Honor St. Nicholas laughed up at her husband. Her eyes were an intense dark green that reminded Janvier of a shadowed jungle he’d once traversed as a courier, her hair soft ebony.